


the curve of your neck (like an invitation)

by evocates



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Collars, D/s In Place of Communication, Dom/sub, M/M, Misuse of Kryptonian Powers, Ownership, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: Bruce had a peculiar habit of sitting down whenever they had time for a proper conversation, Clark noticed. Knees apart, elbows on his thighs, head tipped up and back at a precise angle that would show his clavicle – if he wasn’t wearing the armour – but hide his throat with his jaw and chin.Clark learns to speak Bruce’s language. Written for theDom Clark/sub Bruce prompton the DCEU kink meme.





	the curve of your neck (like an invitation)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [the curve of your neck (like an invitation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14704620) by [andywashere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andywashere/pseuds/andywashere)



> **Warning:** D/s dynamics, breathplay, collaring/ownership kink, misuse of Kryptonian powers for sex and Domming, lack of proper negotiations for any of the above. Replacement of proper communication with BDSM. Basically: idealised version of BDSM that would never happen in real life. Please don’t try this at home. Also, vague spoilers for the _Justice League_ film.
> 
> Beta'd by [kikibug13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikibug13), who is the most awesome and forbearing.

Bruce had a peculiar habit of sitting down whenever they had time for a proper conversation, Clark noticed. Knees apart, elbows on his thighs, head tipped up and back at a precise angle that would show his clavicle – if he wasn’t wearing the armour – but hide his throat with his jaw and chin.

It didn’t happen often: Superman and Batman didn’t have much chance to converse, because most times they just barked status reports and orders through the League communicators, and Clark Kent needed an article and an appointment before he could get to even look at Bruce Wayne up close, much less talk to him properly. There were only brief moments, mostly during the downtime after some crisis that the League needed to help with or another. If Clark was counting, he would say it had happened three times, in all.

Maybe that wasn’t enough to make a habit. Still, it nagged at him. Bruce would stand when he was talking to Barry and Arthur and Victor. He would lean against a wall or a table with his arms crossed when speaking to Diana. With Clark… with Clark, he would find a chair, sit down, and _look_ _up_. Maybe it was just coincidence; Bruce was human, and sometimes the League met assholes big enough that they could even tire out Batman. Maybe it just meant that Bruce trusted him enough to let him see the hints of exhaustion.

Always seemed like there was more to it, though.

Then extra-dimensional villains with megalomaniacal tendencies decided to invade London, and Clark _remembered_.

(Things didn’t start off in London. It was in Jerusalem. A backpacker’s hostel, Clark’s last stop for the Middle East before heading further down south. A girl – twenty-three, he learned later, but she’d looked so much younger – sprawled on the couch in the lounge around, playing with her phone and tugging absentmindedly at the choker on her throat. It was made of leather, with silver chains hanging down to frame the pendant in the shape of the letter T. 

As Clark scribbled on his notebook in the seat opposite, an older woman came down. Dark skin, dark eyes, perhaps in her mid-thirties. Her gaze had flicked over to Clark for a moment before she hooked her fingers underneath the leather of the girl’s choker – _collar_ – and tugged. The girl’s entire body _arched_ , then, her head dropping back. Clark’s pen had dropped to the floor, his breath caught in his throat and his head spinning from the rush of blood southwards.

They were both English, he learned later in their tiny hostel room as the woman guided his fingers to wrap around the girl’s throat. The woman had given him her email, and told him to contact her at any time. If he was ever in London, the girl had murmured shyly, he could come and visit. That was why Clark remembered.

But that wasn’t important. What was engraved in his head was that moment when the girl’s head had dropped back. The tiny sigh she had made. Her hooded eyes. The angle of her neck.

The same angle as Bruce’s whenever he sat down to talk to him.) 

He managed to not be distracted too much by the flood of memories – only snapped at by Bruce twice, which was probably a record of some sort – to finish kicking those megalomaniacs back to their own dimension, using their own device. London wasn’t too damaged – a bunch of plays had to be cancelled, a few theatres in the West End would have to go through extensive repairs – and there were no casualties because their first step had been to whisk people out of the way while Batman distracted the crazies.

So, Clark didn’t feel too bad about speeding through with the clean-up. Though he tried his best to not look like he was in a hurry. 

But something still gave him away, still, because Diana had asked him to check up with what Bruce was doing. Bruce wasn’t taking part in the clean-up – no point for him to do it, because most of it was manual labour requiring either superhuman strength or inhuman speed – and he was in the Batwing instead, tinkering with… something.

“The dimensional door used should have emitted some kind of signal that could be picked up,” Clark heard once he had scaled the ramp. The voice distorted into Batman’s usual rasp but without Batman’s usual curtness. This was Bruce sharing information, he was pretty sure. “That should leave a trace. I’m trying to see if we have existing equipment that might be rigged to pick it up.”

“Any progress?” 

Bruce turned around. He had been standing at the makeshift worktable set to the wall behind the cockpit, one gauntlet pulled off to show slightly-swollen knuckles and chipped nails streaked with machine oil. “Probably need to get back to the Cave before anything useful can be done,” he said. 

Then, before Clark could even conjure up any kind of reply, he walked past Clark, grabbed a folding chair, and sat down. He spread his knees and rested his elbows on them. And he tipped his head up.

Clark’s breath caught in his throat. His mind spat out the image of the woman’s tanned hand stroking down the girl’s pale jaw, fingertips resting at her pulse just to feel it thunder. But Clark didn’t need to touch Bruce to know his heartbeat; he could hear it now, the slow, steady thrum.

“What did you come up here for?” Bruce asked.

Slowly, Clark took a step forward. In his ears, Bruce’s heart sped up, three beats per second instead of one, before it slowed down again. Clark took another step. He reached out his hand slowly, carefully telegraphing his motions. Giving Bruce as much time as he needed to move, or even to slap Clark’s hand away.

Bruce didn’t budge an inch. His eyes, grease-painted beneath the cowl, were very dark.

“Do you know,” Clark said, his voice so soft that he wasn’t even sure Bruce could hear him, “what you’re doing?”

No reply. Just the barest parting of the lips; less than a fraction of an inch. Batman was always thinking, always planning. Batman’s every move was deliberate, and behind them laid at least two reasons, sometimes even three. Batman didn’t waste a single moment, a single word.

Which, Clark supposed, was answer enough. The same answer as the last three times. But now Clark knew the question.

He touched him. Curl of his fingers at the nape of the neck. Thumb stroking, light, over the edge of the jaw, barely brushing the bristles of stubble. Behind the cowl, Bruce’s lids lowered. A silver of hazel showed through, still, bright and sharp. Clark shifted his hand, now rubbing the line where the cowl ended to reveal skin, and then down, down. Nail against his throat, pressing lightly against the Kevlar and carbon fibre. Superman’s strength could tear apart the carefully-made armour like it was rice-paper. 

Clark waited.

“Do _you_ know what you’re doing?” Bruce murmured. Subvocal, bypassing the modulator. Impossible to pick up by human ears.

“I have some idea,” Clark said. His eyes followed the nearly-invisible bob of Bruce’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed. His ears picked up the sound of the barest hitch in his breath. Bruce’s hands, he noticed, are still clasped together. There was the slightest squeak as Kevlar and leather protested. “But I need to know if this is what you really want.”

There was a second’s pause. Then Bruce pushed off the chair, and slid to the floor.

Starting from his shoulders, an undulation of the spine. His knees remained exactly the same distance apart. As Clark watched, his hands loosened their grip on each other, and folded together behind his back. His head was still tipped backwards, and he didn’t even jar Clark’s hand. 

Perfect posture. Unbelievable grace. Clark’s breath hitched.

Keeping his eyes on Bruce’s, he lifted his foot. And stepped on Bruce’s crotch. 

Bruce’s heart gave him that three-beats a second slip in control again. Clark counted them, waiting until the cusp of the moment when it started to slow. Then he leaned forward, and put more of his weight on that foot. More, more, feeling and hearing the hard plastic strain and—

_Crack_.

Bruce made a sound like the air had been punched out of his lungs. His body jerked, spine arching as he tried to buck Clark’s foot off. But Clark only steadied himself with one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, pushing him back down, even as he grabbed his chin with his other. He flicked his nail over Bruce’s lips – pressed together now; a white, tight line – and pulled Bruce up until he could hear the blood rushing to his calves as they contracted to bear his weight.

Clark sucked in air he didn’t really need through his teeth. He let the sound of Bruce’s body, the feel of Kevlar and of skin, fade away as he focused on not getting hard. Not right now. Not right away. He wasn’t sure why, just that it didn’t seem right.

Even though his mind was giving him images of Bruce, with the cowl still on, and his lips red and swollen where they were wrapped around Clark’s cock. Sucking him off right there, on his knees in the Batwing, with the wreckage of London and thousands of people still outside.

_No_. That wasn’t what this was about. Get off the power trip, Kent.

“I’m going to go out there to finish with the clean-up,” Clark said. It was hard – difficult, _difficult,_ Christ – to keep his voice level when Bruce was still staring at him, when Bruce was keeping still in that precise and likely uncomfortable position, but he managed it. “When we’re done, I expect to find you ready at home, waiting for me.” 

“What makes you think that I’d do that?” Still subvocal, bypassing the modulator. Still level, as if he was standing in front of his Cave’s computers running algorithms instead of on his knees with Clark’s foot just above his cock.

But Clark wasn’t fooled. He had learned, over the past few months of working with Batman, to not put his trust in merely Bruce’s voice or words. Bruce hid everything by instinct, and everything he showed was in a language of his own making and to which he held the only keystone. Easier, and more reliable, to look to his actions instead.

( _I don’t not like you_ , Bruce had said. _He’s the one who insisted on reviving you_ , Diana had murmured, later. _He came to visit your grave often,_ Mom had told him, shaking her head. _I’ve never managed to convince him to come into the house._ )  
 _  
_( _I’m not going to tell you where the Kryptonite is_ , Bruce had said one night, voice a sharp snap in the gleaming hollow of the Cave. _You’re still a threat._ Bruce’s shoulders under his arm after he collapsed fighting Metallo, an ex-LexCorp employee who refashioned one of Luthor’s robots into a suit and powered it with Kryptonite. Lamps that emitted yellow sunlight in a corner of the Cave, Bruce’s hands gentle as he laid him onto the cot he had dragged over while there was still a gash on his shoulder as large as Clark’s hand.)

“Because you want to,” Clark said, and he smiled as Bruce’s lips parted and his breath shook. He stroked the edge where the cowl met flesh again.  
 _  
_Then he stood up, and headed for the ramp. He didn’t need to turn back to know that Bruce remained on his knees until he took the final step onto London ground.

*

After clean-up was finished and they were being politely and unceremoniously shooed off by the mayor, Barry suggested that they all find something to eat together, chattering about trying local cuisine. Clark felt a bit bad for blowing him off – especially after how crestfallen he looked when Victor informed him that the Batwing had already taken off and Arthur was taking a running jump into the Thames – but he wasn’t as cruel as to make Bruce wait while he hung out with their teammates. 

Maybe next time. If there was a next time. That would be up to Bruce to decide.

( _I give the orders, but she calls the shots_ , the woman had told him, her eyes serious and still. _Do you understand the difference?_

Then, Clark had said that he did. He would probably still say the same, if he ever saw her again. But Bruce was different. Bruce would tell him what he wanted – perhaps, if Clark pushed and was really lucky – but that might not be what he needed. Might be the opposite of it, even. 

A glass case in the Cave; in the centre, impossible to be missed, impossible to look away from entirely because it would hover there, at the corner of the eye. _A reminder_ , Batman’s rough growl had said. Pain and grief etched into every inch of that uniform’s fabric, overlaying the glass with every time Bruce came down to the Cave until the emotions nearly choked the air of the hollow space.

No words. Just an action. A decision made in the placement. Clark was an investigative journalist. At the very least, he knew how to separate reality from the red herrings.)

Bruce’s bedroom had a balcony. Which was a good thing, because Clark wouldn’t know what to say to Alfred if he saw him. _Hi, I’m here to…_ To what? He hadn’t decided if he was going to fuck Bruce, though he really did want to. _I’m here to talk to him._ Which, though true, wasn’t entirely what would be going on, and definitely would incur Alfred’s suspicions when they ended up ‘talking’ in the bedroom.  
 _  
I’m here to put him on his knees and make him shatter and submit and put him back together_.

Even though he was flying below the speed of sound, the stratosphere was cold. That was probably the only reason why he wasn’t blushing up a storm just imagining Alfred’s face if he actually did tell him that. Shaking his head, he pushed himself a bit more, flying faster.

He broke through the clouds. Though the sun was just setting in London, it was still early afternoon in Gotham. Despite the bright sunlight above the clouds – enough to sear – Gotham looked dark and grey, the air thick with industrial smoke and ever-present smog. The gargoyles on the tops of the buildings snarled at him as he passed, their rage made fiercer by being shown full-form. Gotham didn’t like Superman; his colours were too bright, and he represented a hope that she couldn’t quite believe in.

His feet touched the ground of Bruce’s balcony. His hand froze in mid-air just as he was about to touch the door.

Bruce had changed out of the suit, and was instead in button-down shirt and slacks, both silk. He was on his knees, his hands tucked behind him and shoulders loose. His eyes were closed, and Clark could hear his deep, slow breathing; the strong beat of his heart beneath his ribcage. He didn’t look up; didn’t open his eyes. If Clark didn’t know better, he would say that Bruce didn’t know he was there.

He tried the door. It was locked. Clark pulled. The lock screeched, broke, and the glass threatened to shatter. Clark slammed it harder against the edge, and it _did_ shatter, shards crashing down all over the floor.

Bruce didn’t move. But his heart rate spiked so suddenly that it now sounded like war drums in Clark’s ears. 

(Actions. A language created by Bruce and only he and perhaps Alfred fluent in it. The keystone kept close to his heart and which had been, piece by piece, handed to Clark. Bruce, waiting for him to understand. Bruce, who had a thousand plans and a million contingencies, simply waiting. Head tipped back, just a hint of clavicle. An invitation without knowing if it would ever be understood, much less taken.)

Glass snapped and crackled under Clark’s feet. He swept them away. Standing in front of Bruce, he cupped his face and tipped his head up, his thumb gentle over those closed eyes. Bruce opened them, looked at him, and there was such an overt challenge in his gaze that Clark wanted to laugh. He knew what Bruce expected. He knew what was supposed to come after such a display of disobedience.

He leaned down and kissed him instead.

Soft, barely a brush of lips. Plenty of time for Bruce to jerk away. But Bruce only made a sound deep in his throat, a twisting thing. Clark hummed in reply, tilting his head so their noses wouldn’t bump as he nipped against Bruce’s bottom lip. Just a tease, definitely not enough to draw blood.

“You’re not playing by the rules,” Bruce said.

“My rules,” Clark told him, voice mild. He sank down on one knee, and caught Bruce’s hitching gasp with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And my rules say: you have been so patient, so good, and you deserve a reward.” 

Bruce stopped moving.

It wasn’t the stillness of the Bat, the control he had of his own body such that he didn’t move for hours at the edge of a roof, waiting for people to fall into his trap. Not a predator’s anticipation. Just raw shock, barely leashed. Clark stroked his thumb over the line of Bruce’s throat, from the hollow up to the chin, and caught the gasp that escaped with his lips.

“My rules,” Clark repeated. “But you decide whether or not we play.”

( _I give the orders, but she calls the shots._ Clark was adapting.)

“What will you do if I say no?” Bruce asked, head tilted. “What will you do if I want you to play by _my_ rules instead?”

If that was all he had wanted, then he could have called for a professional. Someone who would do whatever he liked; someone who would fulfil his every whim. He could afford it. And there were plenty who would be discreet enough to keep quiet about Bruce Wayne’s proclivities, and not say a word about whatever that they hear or see.

But Bruce hadn’t done any of that. He had simply sat down in front of Clark, head tipped back. The curve of his throat, an invitation extended four different times. Waiting without certainty.

“Then I’ll go,” Clark said. This time, it was his fingers that caught Bruce’s hitching breath, right there at the bob of his Adam’s apple. “I’ll go, and I’ll come back another day, until you’re fine with playing by my rules.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Bruce said, slurring the words until they became Bruce Wayne’s drawl. His eyes lidded and his lips curled up into a smirk. “Where did a farmboy learn to do something like that?”

Clark slapped him. Just a sharp backhand, most of his strength restrained. Not nearly enough to jerk Bruce’s head to the side, much less turn his cheek red. More noise than pain.

But Bruce’s eyes went wide. And he started to pant. _Ah_ , Clark thought, feeling the weight of another piece of the keystone falling into his hand. _Ah, so that’s what it is_.

“I’m not going to become another instrument of your punishment,” he said, keeping his voice mild. “Nothing you do is going to make me treat you like you want me to.” He leaned closer, placing his weight on the foot still flat on the floor, and dragged his nails down from Bruce’s neck to the small of his back. Following the curve of his spine that stayed so, so still under his touch.

“We play by my rules, and I’ll give you what you _need_.” The hand on Bruce’s throat shifted to his hair. The strands were thick and heavy. He gripped them tight, and jerked Bruce’s head back. Ran his fingers gentle on the rougher grey at the temples in apology. “Give me your safeword, if you agree.”

Bruce’s lips thinned. But he didn’t pull away. He could have. There were so many ways in which he could’ve gotten out of Clark’s hold, Kryptonian strength and speed notwithstanding, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t even _try_. 

(Actions. And the lack of them.)

“Kryptonite,” Bruce said, his voice soft. “It’s Kryptonite.”

Clark stilled, but he wasn’t surprised. A glass exhibit of his deepest failure, its presence ensuring that the wound never closed. And now, kryptonite as symbol of safety while kneeling at the feet of the only person who would be harmed by it. Bruce had asked him, _Do you bleed_?

He stroked his thumb over Bruce’s cheek, following the line the spear had cut on his own. When Bruce shuddered, he leaned in, and pressed his lips over the spot. He didn’t need to ask the same question. Bruce bled. Even now, he was still bleeding, heart’s blood spilled all over the floor and leaving a trail behind his feet.

His hand splayed on Bruce’s chest, right against where the Bat would be if he was still wearing the armour. His heart was thundering, his usual control over it unravelling. It was so _loud_. Clark curled his fingers, digging his nails in between the ribs, and surged down to capture Bruce’s mouth at the hint of the rising whine. He wedged a knee between Bruce’s thighs, pressing against his crotch, as his hips rocked up.

“Kryptonite,” Clark agreed. “And when you can’t speak…” He tapped Bruce’s ribs three times, a staccato beat. “You do that on any part of me, and I’ll stop.” 

“God,” Bruce breathed. “ _Clark_.” The name was wrenched out of his throat and turned into pure heat in the air. Clark breathed it in. 

Then he reached behind Bruce’s back and took one of his hands from where they were still tucked together. He rubbed soothingly at the marks on Bruce’s wrists, from his own nails, before folding the fingers against his own. “Three taps, Bruce,” he said. “Show me.”

Bruce’s fingers seemed to spasm instead of tapping. But the beat was accurate. Clark expected nothing less.

“Good,” Clark said. “You have been so good, Bruce.” He smiled. “You deserve a reward.”

He slid his hand from Bruce’s hair down to curl around his neck. He squeezed. With just enough strength and aim to cut off Bruce’s air, but not enough to stop the flow of blood to his brain. 

Thing about his life was that he had learned very early on to not insist that people should be a certain way, because that was futile at best and hurtful at worst. He might think that Arthur should stop heading for the nearest body of water every time socialisation came up, and maybe Victor needed to have more chill when it came to his father, Barry definitely needed a pause button somewhere in his body, and Diana needed to talk about love a bit less or else Clark’s eyebrow would twitch out of his face… but he wasn’t going to try to change them. Better to just accept, and act accordingly. 

“You weren’t wrong, you know,” Clark said as Bruce jerked up and his eyes went wide, lips parting to try to drag air into a closed throat. “Okay, yeah, trying to kill me before having a conversation with me was a bit warped, but not the bit about me being a threat. If I hadn’t been dropped where I was, if my Mom and Dad were just a bit worse people…”

Slowly, Clark loosened his grip. Just a tiny bit, enough for Bruce to take in a few shallow gulps of oxygen, before he closed his windpipe again.

“You want me to punish you for what you’ve done,” Clark continued. He looked into Bruce’s eyes, looked at his heaving chest and the hands that had returned to grip each other behind his back. “You were waiting for me to realise that you were inviting me to ruin you, destroy you, because you think you deserve nothing else.”

Bruce hadn’t needed to tell him about the kryptonite; Clark could’ve figured that out himself, because two seconds with Batman were enough to realise that he wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with something so potentially dangerous; that he would be paranoid enough to believe that someone else would’ve found it if he tried to get rid of it. 

But Bruce had told him. Goaded him with it.

“I’m not going to punish you,” Clark said, voice soft. “Because, you see, Bruce, I forgive you. I forgave you when you saved Mom when I asked you to, and every effort you made afterwards to earn my forgiveness…”

He stood, and brought Bruce with him. Held him up by the neck, careful to keep the weight distributed enough that Bruce wouldn’t have too much trouble with his voice tomorrow morning. Then he crooked a smile, and threw Bruce onto the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak and the headboard slam against the wall.

Bruce’s back arched off the mattress immediately, gasping for breath. His hands didn’t go to his throat, instead clenching around the sheets. Clark stepped up onto the bed and pinned him down, one hand on his sternum, fingertips digging in. “Bruce,” he murmured, and swung his legs over Bruce’s hips, straddling him, before he rocked forward and rubbed his thigh against the damp patch on Bruce’s pants. He listened to the wreck he had made of Bruce’s breathing, thrusting forward again and again, careful to angle his own cock away so they wouldn’t touch.

“You can touch me, Bruce,” Clark said. “Touch.”

Immediately, Bruce’s hands flew upwards. Fingers around Clark’s biceps, legs around Clark’s hips, a wildfire in his darkened eyes. “Clark,” he breathed out, voice hoarse. “Clark, Clark, _Clark_ —”

“Yeah,” Clark murmured. “This is what you deserve, yeah?” When he moved forward again, he _dragged_ his thigh over Bruce’s cock. “For everything you’ve done to me and for me since we met.” Bruce made a choking noise at the base of his throat, and Clark pressed his hand to his throat, pushed him down to the bed and took his mouth. Silk slacks tore; buttons clacked against the marble floor, the zipper twisting beyond recognition. Bruce made a sound, a wretched mix of sob and gasp, at his strength.

Kryptonian strength. Dangerous. Everything he had been so afraid of.

“This is what you deserve,” Clark repeated. He ripped Bruce’s boxers apart, too, then stilled and gentled his fingers as he wrapped them around Bruce’s cock. “The bad parts, the good parts. All of it. Every single bit. Just me, here,” he met those eyes, forced them to focus on him with a jerk to the chin, “making you come for me.”

He leaned in and took Bruce’s mouth, slipped his tongue inside even as he moved his hand, speeding up enough that it surely looked blurred to human eyes. Vibrations, if not for the twists to the head he gave every time he stroked upwards; the flick of the nail against the slit.

Bruce’s body went taut. His heels dug into Clark’s invulnerable back, and his entire body _shuddered_. He was close, very close, but it wasn’t enough, and Clark smiled into his mouth.

“Just me here, with you,” he said. He slowed down his hand, dragged his mouth over Bruce’s to capture his desperate gasps. “Taking you,” down, down, just the curl of his fingers at the base, “owning you,” the scrape of his thumb’s nail over the drawn-tight balls, “ _invading_ you.” The nudge of his little finger against Bruce’s hole, pushing just half an inch inside.

And Bruce fell apart for him. Eyes squeezed shut, face scrunched up as if in pain, his cock spitting thickly over his own dress shirt, over Clark’s Superman uniform. Clark closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together, breathing in the wet heat of Bruce’s ragged pants, his fingers toying with his softening cock and making Bruce twitch and shudder beneath him.

His own cock was straining against his uniform. The too-smooth Kryptonian fabric didn’t provide any friction at all, and it was tempting, so tempting, to just rut against Bruce’s thigh until he came. But no, not nearly enough. He could wait. He wanted to wait for something better.

“You…” 

Bruce’s voice was a wreck, ragged and harsh-edged, trailing off at the end of the word as if his vocal chords simply decided to not work anymore. Clark lifted his head. Bruce was staring at him, lips wet and hazel eyes narrowed. The question he wanted to ask seemed to require more breath than he had to spare. Clark waited.

“Christ,” Bruce said finally, the swear explosive. His fingertips slid, very carefully, over the edge of Clark’s hairline. “You don’t deserve to ever be called a farmboy again, Kent.”

Clark laughed. He turned his head and pressed Bruce’s palm against his cheek, kissing the callused palm. “But I _am_ a farmboy,” he said, grinning wide enough to let Bruce feel the scrape of his teeth. “I’ve just travelled the world, too. Seen quite a few things.” He lifted an eyebrow, gaze flicking over to meet Bruce’s.

“Sorry for not fulfilling your fantasy of corrupting me.”

Bruce snorted, shaking his head. But the sudden descending darkness in his eyes made his lopsided half-smile dishonest. Clark frowned, trailing his fingertip over the edge of Bruce’s cheekbone, following the line of the cut made on his own cheek again.

“Tell me,” he said. Not an order, but a request. But, he thought, looking at Bruce’s eyelids flutter and hearing how his heart start to thunder again, he wasn’t sure if Bruce knew the difference.

Something to work on.

“More like destroying you,” Bruce said, voice very soft. “I’ve almost done it once.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said, his voice steel. “You’re not going to do that.” Then, before Bruce could protest, he leaned in and kissed him again. Urging, insistent, and refusing to move away until Bruce let out a sigh and opened his mouth.

“I like being up on a pedestal even less than under your boot, Bruce,” Clark said. When Bruce went completely still again, Clark slipped a hand into his hair again to stop him from pulling away. Tugged on the strands to keep him anchored into the here and now, instead of memories. “I meant what I said: I’m here, _with_ you.”

He pulled back. “Not above. Not below. With.” His fingers crawled upwards, thumb nudging against the hollow of Bruce’s throat, then over his thrumming pulse. “Like how it should be.”

( _I give the orders, but she calls the shots_. 

Even if Bruce wouldn’t admit what he had been asking for, he had given Clark enough pieces of the keystone for him to understand without needing explanation or translation. And every bit was precious.

Clark could only read him like this because he was _allowed_.) 

“Hard to believe that when,” Bruce said, voice wry despite the hoarseness, “there’s still this.” He rocked his hips up, sliding his knee over Clark’s cock.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get you to do something ‘bout that,” Clark said, grinning. “Just something else I need to do first.” He leaned back, half-floating in the air as he lifted himself off of Bruce. Then he pinched his fingers around the waistband of Bruce’s slacks.

Bruce blinked, tilting his head. Clark’s grin widened as he _pulled_. Silk tore, and Clark guided the lines with two fingers, sitting cross-legged in the air and floating backwards to follow the strip of cloth that came off in his hands. He pressed a kiss to Bruce’s ankle and ripped it free. 

The edges were ragged – Kryptonian strength wasn’t exactly a pair of scissors – but that was part of the point. Raising his head, Clark met Bruce’s eyes as he dragged the length of cloth over his own uniform. Bruce’s come was drying already, becoming sticky, and Clark used it to fold the cloth over and over until it was the correct length.

“Sit up,” Clark said. Bruce had surely figured out what he was doing now, and his breathing had turned shallow again. But he sat up, and Clark looped the cloth over his neck. He took one of Bruce’s hands, and raised them to his throat. “Hold it there.”

There were two buttons on Bruce’s slacks. Silver, because Bruce had chosen very expensive clothes to wear while kneeling at Clark’s feet waiting to be torn apart. Clark found one of them rolled near the bed, and he picked it up and climbed on again. Bruce hadn’t moved, though Clark could feel his gaze following his movements.

Nudging Bruce’s hand away, Clark curled his own. Button between two fingers, edges of the cloth held with the other. Bruce tipped his head back obligingly, and Clark kissed the corner of his jaw as a reward. 

Then he turned on his heat vision. When the silver was nothing more than a pile of molten heat, he sealed the edges of the cloth with it, and blew ice breath carefully to set the metal and pressed it flat, like a buckle. With his eyes on Bruce, he dug his nail into the soft silver, and carved the sigil of his family onto the surface.

“I’ll need to take it off eventually,” Bruce said. Despite the evenness of his voice, his pupils were blown dark, and Clark could practically hear his cock reawakening, twitching. 

“But until then, you have something that shows you that I mean what I said,” Clark said. “Every word of it.” He cupped Bruce’s face and kissed him. Just the light brush of his lips. 

“Get on your knees.”

Bruce blinked at him. Nodded. He slipped down to the floor, the ruins of his slacks pooling at his feet. He knelt on them, hands behind his back. Clark smiled. Sank a hand into dark hair, thumb brushing the grey at the temples, and settled himself at the edge of the bed. Not sitting, but floating just an inch above.

He traced his nail over Bruce’s cheek again, feeling him shiver. Felt the heat of his breath against his thumb as he rubbed it over Bruce’s lips. “Open your mouth,” Clark said. “Suck me off, Bruce. Make me come while wearing the collar. Show me that you belong to me. Swallow my come so it paints your throat.”

Turning his head, Bruce rubbed his stubbled cheek against Clark’s thigh. Unearthly-smooth material against very human roughness. Clark shivered. He found the leyline of the leggings – just underneath the red belt – and urged it to retreat with a thought. Watched as Bruce chased the fading hexagons with his teeth. Hands still behind his back, shoulders straight. Spine curved like the crest of a wave. Perfect balance. Unbelievable grace. 

Clark kept his eyes open as Bruce took him into his mouth. Cupped Bruce’s face to feel the bulge in his cheek. Strained his hearing to feel the flutter of lashes, in perfect time to the twitch of Bruce’s throat at the head of his cock. Looked into those eyes just to see them cloud over as Bruce sunk himself into the taste of Clark's dick. 

_Mine_.

* * *

(He should send an email to that woman, he thought later, stroking his hand down Bruce’s side just to feel him twitch in sleep, to see the silk of the collar shiver with every deeper breath. To thank her. But he couldn’t think of anything eloquent to say. All that came to his mind was, _Dear Talia, thank you for showing me everything you did, because now I have a Batman and he might just be the best thing that has happened to me in my life._

Hell, he didn’t even know what name to sign off as, or which email to use. It wasn’t as if he was using his own name in Jerusalem when he met her.

Better not.)

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in five hours when I was supposed to be working. I can’t even feel guilty about it. And no, I don’t know what the mention of Talia is supposed to mean, either. It just came to me. It’s probably some weak semblance of a plot. It has been a long, long time since I wrote a PWP.
> 
> This is not my first SuperBat, but it is my first SuperBat in DCEU. Please validate me via comments. <3


End file.
